


had a thought, babe

by Anonymous



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Cheesy, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, but like so cheesy it's the cheesiest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 06:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Anders turns the ring box in his palm and opens it, presenting Mitchell with the precious band inside, glinting silver-like between them.“I was thinking gold for the wedding rings,” he says. “If. If you say yes.”(In which things don't go as Anders had planned, but they do go as they should.)





	had a thought, babe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlmarvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarvel/gifts).

> For the nicest, cutest, sweetest, smartest fren out there <3 This is really just a big big chunk of cheese rolled into some more cheese, so please read at your own risk. Title courtesy of Hozier, and may he always be blessed for saving so many writers' asses just like mine.

When Mitchell walks out of the bedroom, all dressed up and still grumbling about it, he hardly looks like himself. For a second there, Anders thinks he wouldn’t recognize him if it weren’t for the trademark pout and those long, long legs of his. The gray suit pants look painted on, and the white dress shirt feels like a snug, comfortable hug around his shoulders.

Anders can definitely congratulate himself for the choice. Never mind the PR business, he should work in haute couture and pick clothes for hot men every day for the rest of his life. Be better if they’re tall, dark and troublesome, and he can personally guarantee their ability to fuck him up against a wall with only 0.1% effort on their part.

Mitchell strides in with a pointed _tap, tap, tap_ of his heels on the linoleum, awkward in the shiny shoes he only wore once before – but secretly smug about it, like a girl wearing her high heels for the first time.

He’s still fumbling with his necktie, fingers working blindly on the knot; his face all scrunched up in concentration even as he’s staring into nothing. On the fourth failed attempt, Anders takes pity on him – or on the poor, creased silk of the tie, which has done nothing to deserve John Mitchell’s clumsy paws – and gets up off the couch, batting Mitchell’s hands away.

Mitchell huffs at him, but he lets himself be manhandled without protest.

There’s a smirk dancing on his lips as Anders gets his hands on him, and Anders takes a half step closer, securing himself in Mitchell’s space, as is his right to do.

He turns Mitchell’s collar up, making sure to brush his fingertips against Mitchell’s skin; the faintest hint of stubble rasps under his touch, right there on the underside of Mitchell’s jaw, familiar. Mitchell’s never quite clean shaven, and as inconvenient as that may be sometimes – in some places – Anders likes it that way. It’s not his fault he’s come to associate beard burn with home. Not when he has a useless vampire living in his house.

“I can’t believe you got to 126 and you still don’t know how to tie your own tie,” he chides, rearranging the deep wine-colored silk around Mitchell’s neck.

“I hate ties,” Mitchell quips back. “You should be thanking me for doing this. Why am I doing this again?”

Anders tuts, very nearly offended by the obviousness of it all.

“Because I’m the love of your life and your only wish is to please me.”

“I’m sure there are _other_ ways I can please you,” Mitchell teases, his mischievous grin already on and fully operational.

It almost – _almost_ makes Anders want to give in and let Mitchell have his way; strip all his clothes off, send the shoes flying out the window and spread Mitchell over the nearest available surface. But he’s got plans tonight. Plans as tiny as a velvet ring box, and as heavy as lead where they’re hidden in his pocket.

“Not in a room full of people, you dirty old bugger.”

Mitchell chuckles at him, the sound of it vibrating warmly in his throat and under Anders’ busy fingers.

“You sure?”

“I’ve only been to prison _once_ in my life, John, I’m not looking to repeat the experience.”

“If you say so,” Mitchell shrugs, jostling Anders a little so he loses grip on the tie’s slippery end. He carefully loops it again around itself, tucking and folding in slow, measured gestures, intimately aware of Mitchell’s eyes on him, of Mitchell’s breath ghosting over his knuckles, feather-soft and warm like a caress.

He gives the necktie one last gentle tug, adjusting the knot so it sits at the base of Mitchell’s throat, then tucks the shirt collar back down.

“There you go,” he says, and it comes out softer than he meant it to be.

“Thanks,” Mitchell mutters, as Anders steps away to retrieve the gray suit jacket he’d draped so neatly over the back of the sofa. “Why can’t I just wear some jeans, though?”

“Trust me, you wanna look fancy tonight,” Anders promises, helping him into his jacket one careful sleeve at a time. “All eyes will be on us.”

He circles back around Mitchell, doing his buttons up for him while another, dangerous grin emerges on the vampire’s face.

“What, did you sign us up for a magic show or something?” He asks, smiling down at Anders, all toothy and bright and handsome, and when his arms come around Anders to squish their bodies together, Anders doesn’t even fight it.

He rests his hands on Mitchell’s chest, making a show of smoothing down the burgundy tie, but his palms don’t much care for the delicate silk there; they’re too drawn to the warmth beneath it.

He lets Mitchell lean in, lets him kiss the corner of his mouth; feels the exact shape of Mitchell’s smile on his skin like a welcome home and closes his eyes just to feel it more.

“You gonna saw me in two, babe?” Mitchell rumbles against his cheek, and Anders laughs in his face, and then Mitchell’s laughing, too.

“Maybe I should,” Anders tells him, slithering out of his embrace. But even as he puts a respectable few inches between them, his hands find their way back to Mitchell, fingers tucking under his lapels like it’s gravity pulling them in.

It’s still heady, how he can just do this. How he can lay his claim on his rightful place on Mitchell’s chest, and have it granted to him, just like this.

When they come home tonight – if he comes home with an empty little box in his pocket, and Mitchell with a few grams of platinum weighing his hand down, Anders will get to do this for the rest of his life.

Perhaps it should scare him, but when he looks up at Mitchell, with his soft lips and his ponytail and the loose curls framing his cheeks, all he can think is, _yes, yes please now._

“Do I look good, at least?” Mitchell asks him with a definitely fake, long-suffering sigh.

“No,” Anders smirks, one hand splayed possessively over Mitchell’s stomach. “You look like the finest piece of ass they’re gonna see all night. Now come on.”

* * *

The place is classy. Dimmed lights and dressed up waiters, a sleek black piano and a gorgeous lady in navy blue singing on the stage – the whole number.

But the good, god the food. Anders can see the resigned look on Mitchell’s face every time he’s presented with the artfully constructed spoonful on a too large plate, and he has to hide his grin behind his hand when Mitchell tries to make it last, then gives up and scoops the whole thing into his mouth.

This is what he booked a table five weeks in advance for. He doesn’t know whether it’s hilarious or tragic.

He second-guesses himself like fifteen times over dinner, a hundred different scenarios playing before his eyes while Mitchell orders more wine.

If he goes down on one knee right here, in front of everyone– what then? Maybe everybody will clap their hands and cheer. Maybe the staff will have a cheesy love song played for them. Maybe they’ll be kicked out and that’ll be it.

More than once, Anders slips his hand in his pocket to feel the ring box hidden there. He could simply pull it out, slide it over to Mitchell’s side of the table. Mitchell could open it himself.

Mitchell could. He could say no. Stand up and grab his jacket and walk away from Anders, leave him behind with his stupid ring.

Or. Or he could say yes.

“Hey.”

He looks up from his glass, shaking himself from his thoughts – just on time to see Mitchell leaning over the centrepiece, checking the surrounding tables for eavesdroppers.

Then, with the most suggestive wink he can manage, Mitchell whispers, “So when is the magic show starting?”

Anders rewards him with a playful kick under the table, but his shoulders loose some of the tension they’d steadily built up over the course of the night.

“Shut up and play footsie with me already,” he whispers back, while the lady croons her pretentious jazz song in her pretentious dress.

Mitchell chuckles; but when their eyes meet, there’s more than amusement, more than fondness in the way he’s looking at Anders.

It’s the way Mitchell looks at him sometimes, when it’s just the two of them. When Mitchell crowds him against the kitchen counter and cups his face in his big clumsy paws and kisses him soft and deep. The way he looks at Anders before he says _I love you_, and Anders lets him, lingers there into him.

And now he looks back, fingers curling around his wine glass, and Mitchell’s smile is a sweet, private thing in the dim blue lights.

The little velvet square nearly burns through Anders’ thigh where it’s resting in his pocket, but he knows now. He wants this all to himself. The only mistake was trying to do it with an audience; but this isn’t for them. No, when it happens, no matter how it happens, it will be just the two of them. Home.

* * *

It’s still early when they get out, the city alight around them, the streets alive with people. Mitchell walks close to him, one arm slung over Anders’ shoulders, Anders’ own arm wrapped loosely around his boyfriend’s waist.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Mitchell tries, when they stop at a red light.

Anders hums distractedly. “But?”

“I could really use a pizza right now,” the vampire confesses. He looks so apologetic about it, too, right there on the verge of mortified, Anders can’t stop himself from snorting out a laugh.

“Come on, you big oaf. Let’s go get your carbs.”

There’s a pizza place just two blocks away; Mitchell lets himself be steered in the right direction, his smart shoes stumbling a little on the sidewalk.

As soon as he’s steady again, he ducks and nuzzles the side of Anders’ head, where the blond hair is shortest, and steals a kiss there.

“The wine was good, though.”

Anders smiles.

“Yeah. The wine was good.”

* * *

Mitchell demolishes his pizza in three minutes flat, sitting on the couch with the cardboard box in his lap, his jacket abandoned god knows where. He’s got his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his tie thrown back over one shoulder so he won’t accidentally dip it into melted cheese, and he’s moaning like he just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life – and that’s when Anders decides, fuck it.

He takes one look at Mitchell’s shiny lips, at the balled up napkins and the dripping tomato sauce and he just knows, _this has to be mine_. This is what he wants to put a ring on, pepperoni and all, and it’s fucking pathetic, and he loves it. In fact, he’s never loved anything more.

And so he pushes his own pizza box to the side, puts his beer down, and moves to sit on the coffee table, knocking his knees into Mitchell’s in the process.

Mitchell makes a small, inquisitive noise in his throat, too busy licking grease off his fingertips to talk.

For a long, long moment, Anders is silent. Then: “You know, I had plans tonight.”

Mitchell’s wiping at his mouth with a napkin, empty box set aside as he gives Anders a curious glance.

“Plans?”

“Yeah.” Anders swallows. This is so much harder than he thought it would be. “Let’s just say I had a– last-minute change of heart.”

Across from him, Mitchell is frowning, confused.

“Anders...? Is something wrong?”

Heart lodged in his throat, Anders shakes his head. He shuffles on the table, body tilting sideways as he sticks a hand down his pocket and pulls it out, the black velvet almost slipping between his fingers.

He doesn’t dare to even peek at Mitchell’s face; the soft gasp coming from him says enough.

Anders holds the box between them, still shut, his heart thudding strangely behind his ribs.

“_This_ is why I thought I’d be bringing everybody’s attention on us,” he explains, barely finding the voice for it.

For the longest, oh the _longest_ moment, Mitchell doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, like a man easing himself into cold water, he speaks.

“When you say that you had a change of heart,” he begins, a distinct waver in his voice, and Anders whips his head up because _Jesus no_, what has he done _now_, “does– does that mean–”

“Only that it was the wrong time and place,” he hastens to say, his free hand flying out to clasp Mitchell’s knee to catch his attention, to say _believe me, fuck please believe me_.

But when he does have Mitchell’s attention, when Mitchell’s staring back at him like that, pinning him in place, Anders’ traitorous tongue deserts him.

“It was, well. Good plan, poor execution,” he admits with a grimace. “But I still like the plan. The plan is still a go.” He thumbs at the domed box in his palm, watching the gentle sheen of the velvet change in the light. “I’m just. Gonna wing it, now.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the fidgeting, the awkward wording, or Mitchell’s fundamentally tender heart, but something softens in those hazel eyes of his. Something that lights up right there, sweet and affectionate and even the tiniest bit amused; something so deeply, so terribly hopeful, it makes Anders hope, too.

“Well,” Mitchell says, his lips curling up in the smallest, shyest of smiles. “Go ahead, then. I’m not stopping you.”

The moment the implications sink in, the whole of Anders’ mouth goes dry.

“You’re not?”

Mitchell scoots to the edge of the couch, bracketing Anders’ knees with his own.

“No.”

His hands come to rest on Anders’ thighs, and maybe they’re still greasy, maybe his nice pants are ruined now, but there’s a pulsing heart stuck fast in his throat and his palms are sweating and honestly, he’s never cared less about a Hugo Boss in his whole life.

“Then, I guess–” He licks his lips. The world might be spinning in the background, but Mitchell’s hands on him are bright points of warmth, grounding him, soothing him.

Anders turns the ring box in his palm and opens it, presenting Mitchell with the precious band inside, glinting silver-like between them.

“I was thinking gold for the wedding rings,” he says. “If. If you say yes.”

Mitchell laughs, a little wetly, a little choked up.

“I’ll say yes if you ask me the question,” he rasps after, rubbing the heel of one hand over his eye.

He’s the sweetest thing Anders has ever seen, and when he opens his mouth next, Anders knows exactly what to say. The only thing that matters.

“Marry me.”

Mitchell smiles and rolls his eyes, his eyelashes damp and sticking together. “That’s not a question.”

“It’s as good as.”

Mitchell snorts, but Anders doesn’t miss the little sniffle afterwards. He can see the slight trembling in Mitchell’s chin; the warmth of his laugh and the shine of his tears, where he’s caught between two overwhelming emotions. He’s a beautiful wreck, and god, how Anders aches for him.

He plucks the ring out of the box and takes Mitchell’s hand in his own, slipping the platinum band on his fourth finger. It fits perfectly.

It’s so perfect, it makes Anders grin like a loon, and hook a hand behind Mitchell’s neck to pull him closer and kiss him twice, three times, maybe four or five.

“Marry me, you dumbass,” he manages in between, and Mitchell grabs him by the waist and pulls him straight into his lap, kissing him with the taste of pepperoni and cheese still on his tongue and Anders’ arms around his neck.

“Okay,” he breathes out when they part, giggling against Anders’ mouth, “okay, yes, I’ll marry you.”

His necktie has flopped down on his chest, nearly as red as his lips, and Anders tugs on it to lure him into one more kiss.


End file.
